


count your seconds (like hopes)

by whittler_of_words



Series: Antebellum [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: American Sign Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mute Frisk, Reader Is Chara, Running Away, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whittler_of_words/pseuds/whittler_of_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you think about it, every question has an answer. Every puzzle has a solution. Sometimes the questions are riddles and the puzzles are made broken, but technicalities can always be used to one’s advantage, and cardboard pieces can always be <em>made</em> to fit. Sometimes it just takes a little more force. Sometimes you just have to think a little harder.</p>
<p>You had come here -- regardless of the consequences, regardless of the danger -- because you knew other humans avoided Ebott like the plague. And look at what that got you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	count your seconds (like hopes)

If there is one thing you are good at doing, it is dealing with your problems.

When you think about it, every question has an answer. Every puzzle has a solution. Sometimes the questions are riddles and the puzzles are made broken, but technicalities can always be used to one’s advantage, and cardboard pieces can always be _made_ to fit. Sometimes it just takes a little more force. Sometimes you just have to think a little harder.

You’re good at thinking. 

You have never been one to hide from things that scare you. If you hide, they will look for you. If they look for you, they will find you eventually. Why not face your issues head on? Maybe your hubris is your pride (as if you, of all people, would only have the one), but you prefer to face things yourself instead of curled up trembling like a coward. You can’t stand cowards. (You can’t stand yourself either way, but at least it’s for reasons other than that.)

So you’re not hiding now, obviously.

“Chara...” Asriel’s trying very hard not to pout in the doorway; you can hear it in his voice. “Man, I just cleaned this up...”

“I improved it,” you mumble, pulling a pillow over your head. Between that and the blankets, you’re not sure he can actually hear you.

“Chara?” he says, more worried this time. He didn’t hear you after all, then. After a minute of deliberation, you pull on a string tied to the corner of a blanket; it falls back, creating an opening that lets light breach into your makeshift sanctuary, and after a moment Asriel kneels down to peer in. He blinks at you.

“Hi,” you say.

“Howdy,” he says, and then, “can I come in?”

“I wouldn’t have said anything if you couldn’t,” you tell him, shortly. He just nods and crawls in on his hands and knees. He tucks the blanket back into place on his way in, which you appreciate, and muted darkness folds back over you again. There’s a wall of pillows between you and him and the rest of the world, an actual wall at your back. You think about offering him a blanket or pillow or something when he lies on his stomach across from you. You don’t, though.

“Golly,” he says, breaking the quiet. “Isn’t this, uh...” He glances from you to the wardrobe where it’s been tilted over you, leveraged between your bed and the floor. “A little dangerous? What if it falls?”

“It won’t.” You shrug even though he can’t really see it. “And even if it did, it’s too light to really hurt me. I was able to move it around just fine, wasn’t I?”

He doesn’t look very convinced. “I guess.” 

You tuck your face back into the blankets so you don’t have to see the worried way he’s looking at you. He doesn’t say anything for a while. You think he might be waiting for you to talk first, but there’s no way that’s gonna happen. There’s nothing to talk about. He breaks after a few minutes. He tells you about his day, hesitantly at first, then more confidently when you don’t tell him to shut up, and you find yourself relaxing, despite everything. He tells you the story Undyne told him Gerson told her, and today’s magic lesson with Toriel (he still can’t do a lot of magic on his own, but he’s getting better, he can feel it), and a poster he saw for a play that’ll be showing soon. You get so caught up in following his day, welcoming the distraction from your own thoughts, that you almost don’t notice yourself falling asleep.

“Oh, also, I went over to the lab to give the DVD back to Alphys,” he says from next to you, “she was kind of busy so I had to wait a bit. I didn’t mind, though; Frisk was there!” You twitch, fingers digging into your pillow. He doesn’t notice. “We talked for a while and it turns out Sans is letting them help out at the lab, and they’re gonna get an allowance and everything. They even said they’ll treat me to some Nice Cream. Isn’t that neat?”

You sit up. The smile that spreads across his face kind of makes you want to punch him.

“You’re alive!” he says, and pokes the pillow closest to him. You clamber over them. “I was kind of starting to wonder if you could breathe in there.”

“Are the parents inside?”

Asriel presses himself the ground as you step over him. “I saw Mom in her chair when I came in.” 

“I’ll clean up when I get back,” you tell him, not letting yourself squint in the light. You brush yourself off by the door. “I need some air.”

He peers out after you from inside the fort. He doesn’t do much to hide the look of disappointment on his face, but he’s weathered enough of your bullshit by now that he seems to know when you need your space, and all he says is, “Okay. I’ll be here.”

There’s a “thank you” waiting on your tongue, but your throat closes up and pulls it back before it can go anywhere. Typical. You turn around and leave before you can make the situation worse, somehow. The day has already started out bad enough without your help.

True to Asriel’s word, Toriel is knitting in the living room. The clicking of her needles pauses when you go to sit behind her chair, and you bite your tongue, but to your relief she doesn’t say anything. You try to not be obvious about the breath you let out. 

It’d probably be better if you just went outside. You weren’t lying to Asriel when you said you needed air; aside from the occasional visit to Asgore’s garden, you haven’t left the house in weeks, and even then it’s still small and cut off compared to the rest of the world you’ve grown used to. You long to stretch your legs. You’ve never much liked to confine yourself to one space.

You’re afraid, though. You can admit at least that much to yourself.

It was stupid of you, looking back on it. When you came here, you thought you’d left humanity behind, forever and for good, and yet here you are, proven wrong in every possible way once again. You’d let yourself be folded up in the childish ideology that everything might turn out okay for once. Since when have things that seemed too good to be true not turned out to be just that?

You had come here -- regardless of the consequences, regardless of the danger -- because you knew other humans avoided Ebott like the plague. And look at what that got you.

Is a year all you’ve been allowed? It’s more than you ever thought you would have the chance to take, but now that you’ve gotten a taste of this (people who at least try to understand you even if they fail, who can’t seem to realize what a lost cause looks like) you don’t want to let go. But since when did you have a choice? Since when did you get a say in shit like this? Grinding your teeth, you bite back the familiar pang of anger rising up like acid in your throat.

This was _your_ home.

You feel like a toddler, throwing a tantrum and screaming _it’s not fair, it’s not fair,_ but it _isn’t_ ; you got here first, you made this _your_ place, and some human brat thinks they can just skip over the border and win over everybody’s hearts as if they have the fucking right? A smile here, a cute gesture there- you’ve heard enough about them to know the game they’re playing, and you might have even respected it if they weren’t trying so hard to replace you.

You just wish it wasn’t working.

No, stop it. You card your fingers through your mess of hair, counting to ten and back. Maybe you can chance just a quick jog to the market. Ten minutes. It’s not even close to the side of town where they live. But- no. You can’t risk it.

(You’re afraid. Not of them, though. You’re afraid of what you might do to them if you met them. You can admit at least that much to yourself.)

You peer around the chair. Toriel is knitting still, her glasses perched on her nose while she works. You’d tried them on once, when she’d let you, and had been disappointed to find that the world didn’t look much different with them on. It’d made you wonder: what does the world look like to her? To Asgore? To Asriel? Is it different for them? Or just for you?

“Do you need something, dear?” she asks. You blink.

“Nothing,” you say, the word slipping from your mouth like honey. You stand on legs that only shake a little. “Just thinking.”

She doesn’t respond right away, eyes studying you carefully in the way that always makes you feel like she knows you’ve lied to her even if you haven’t (even though you have), and it takes every ounce of calm you have left to keep breathing normally and not give yourself away. “...If you’re sure,” she says eventually, offering you a gentle smile before turning back to her work. The colors are unfamiliar, but you recognize the pattern, and you almost tell her the sweater looks a little small before-- right. You clench your teeth.

You don’t want to let go, but digging your fingers in will only take chunks out of everyone else when you’re inevitably torn away.

Mind made, you turn back down the hall to Asriel’s room. You have some cleaning up to do.

///

There’s something you’ve always liked about houses at night. The quiet, maybe, or the dark, or both; the way the world seems to slow down and become a little less real when the rest of the world is asleep. No yelling, or judgement, or anything. Just you and the night sky. It feels safe. You’d bury yourself in that feeling if you could.

You check your pockets. Knife, right where it belongs. Spare change you found in the street last time you went outside. A few crumpled up papers you make note to throw away later. Everything in place.

The bed is made. You don’t think about any of the food hidden underneath; you can’t stand the thought of throwing any of it away, but you won’t let yourself bring any of it with you either. You’ll have to make do with leaving it all as it is.

Welp. Guess that’s it, then.

You put your hood up as you go, and you only look back once.

///

You start regretting not bringing any of your food with you on the second day.

You’re barely even hungry anymore, but your limbs have become shaky from the drop in blood sugar that comes with not eating; your body has grown soft, used to regular meals. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. Get it together.

Sticking close to the buildings, you try to remain unnoticeable as you walk. It’s both easier and harder than it used to be: your time with the Dreemurrs has earned you a lot of inside knowledge about the way monsters and the Guard works- roll in some dirt every so often to avoid the Dogi, make sure to always have a stick on hand, be prepared to run. It makes getting where you need to go easier than it ever was. There’s only one problem.

Well. Several problems, really. And they’re all _looking for you._

You’ve scuffed your hands and knees more than once diving into a bush or side-alley to avoid Undyne these past few days. She’s easy to hear coming with her armor, which helps, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s still _fast_. Papyrus you weren’t expecting at all, but you’ve found enough spaghetti with encouraging notes attached layed out all over town that you’re starting to think he’s just fucking with you at this point. You’ve taken extra care to lay low and take backroads to avoid being seen as much as possible, and a journey that should’ve only taken a couple of hours has quickly turned into a couple of days because of it. It’s annoying and unwanted and you wish they would just _leave you alone._

There are only a couple reasons why they would be looking for you now. None of them are acceptable or realistic. You refuse to think about it more than that.

You stop.

The buildings that make up this side of Ebott have started to peter off into smaller and smaller homes, opening up to the greenery of free territory belonging to neither human nor monster. You’ve been able to smell the pine for hours now, a scent that’s followed on your heels as you slowly inched your way closer and closer to the outer border of the city. But here, everything just...

Ends.

The last few homes stop as if drawn on an invisible line, as if they were great hulking animals that had sat down one day and refused to get back up again, unwilling to move any closer. For a couple yards past that, there is only long, sweet-smelling grass and wildflowers.

Past that is the forest.

Above you is the mountain.

Years of stories and threats ring in your head ( _giants and hatred and demons and no one would find your fucking body if we threw it in, don’t test us_ ) and you’d feel dizzy, almost; the mountain is the highest point for as long as you can see in any direction, and almost, almost...

You thought it’d be bigger from this close.

The feeling that bites at the back of your throat stings more than disappointment. You’re not sure what it is. You step forward, wading through grass that catches on the hem of your shorts and your jacket, as if trying to pull you back. Or maybe that’s just you attempting to make things more poetic than they really are again. You pick the first flower you can reach, tucking it behind your ear on impulse. It doesn’t smell much like anything.

So focused are you on the path ahead that you don’t notice the sound of footsteps running up behind you until they stop.

A chill shoots down your spine that turns the dread weighing in your stomach into ice. You turn, and

///

the weight of the knife in your hand had been a comfort long before you ever used it. It’d assured you that you existed, that you were alive, despite what anyone else might have wanted; it’d done wonders for fueling your spite. It had kept you grounded when you turned it on yourself, and then you’d turned it on others and it had set you free.

The last time you saw a human, the world had been screaming. The last time you saw a human face, it’d been twisted, angry and bloody and dead, and you had laughed, and laughed, and cried, until there was nothing left. Bruised and broken and happier than you’d been in your entire life. The were right: you really are a demon.

The weight of the knife of your hand is a comfort, the tang of blood in your mouth familiar, but it’s not right, this isn’t

///

they’re doubled over just behind where the grass starts, breathing hard. Your feet are rooted to the ground like the grass growing all around you. You can’t move. For several long moments, they don’t either.

When they bring their hands up, their eyes don’t leave your face.

_Wait_ , they sign, the gesture aborted halfway through when they bring their hand to their chest. _Please._

Your throat tightens. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They aren’t supposed to _be_ here. They don’t look away, waiting for your response, and you hate them for making themself real like this, you hate it, you’re--

You take a step back.

_Stop!_ they say, but you only catch half of the movement when you turn around, sprinting in the other direction.

All you get for warning is the sound they make in the back of their throat before you’re tackled to the ground.

You shriek, thrashing the second you hit the dirt; their arms are wrapped around your waist, trapping you, _how dare they touch you they’re touching you get off get off get off-_ you twist around, struggling for several long seconds and kicking as hard as you can, and they let go with an _oof!_ as you knee them in the chest. You scramble back, breathing as hard as they are. You only realize your mistake when you both climb to your feet together, neither of you willing to give the other the advantage. 

You glance behind them to the forest beyond, desperation making your fingers itch.

_In your way._

You try to dart around them, but they match you step for step despite obviously being winded still, and you scowl, trying to hide your frustration and-- something else. Something. “What do you _want._ ”

_I want to talk,_ they say, and you laugh, a harsh raspy sound that tears from your throat and makes them wince. Good.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you sneer, “except _get out of my way._ ”

They stumble back when you lunge for them, just as surprised as you thought they’d be, and you take the distance they lost as you swing again. They manage to block the would-be blow with their arm, which you weren’t expecting, but you use the opening to drive your fist into their stomach, and the rush of air that leaves them makes you bare your teeth in a grin. You grab onto their sweater, intending to use it to throw them to the side, but they drop their weight suddenly enough that you don’t have the time to push back when they duck down and shove you back; the thrill from your first victory drains from your chest until you’re left feeling empty and angry and right back where you started. You stare at each other again, panting. A standstill.

Most other kids would have given up or ran off by now, after realizing you’re serious about the punches you throw. They just hold their ground, their mouth a grim line to match a smile that even you can tell is strained. They bring up their hands to sign something again, but you don’t even see what they’re saying; all you notice is how their hands are steady where yours are trembling at your sides and you hate them, you hate them, your hatred for them rises up so strong in your bones (your chest) (your entire being) that you don’t even notice you’re moving again. You don’t notice the expression on their face, if they even have time to make one. All you know is the sound of something being hit and the stinging of your knuckles and suddenly the distance is yours again; their hand is over their face, the other one raised in a block to defend themselves, too late. 

“I don’t care,” you spit. “I don’t _care._ Just shut up!”

Their fingers are shaking now. It doesn’t make you feel any better.

_Your family_ , they say, and you don’t catch the rest, even though you are paying attention this time. For all you’ve struggled with it since you came here, you’ve never stopped having difficulty understanding the signed language, and you’re sharply reminded of your limited vocabulary as they stop on _you._ At least that one you can understand. Your own inadequacy sticks between your ribs like any other knife would, and you almost growl in frustration before you stop yourself.

“What about _I don’t care_ do you not understand? Do you think I won’t kill you? Get the _fuck_ out of my way before I do something a lot worse than _that._ ” You point at their face, where the skin around their eye is already starting to swell. Their hand goes back to it gingerly, and for a second, you see them waver.

Then, _No,_ they practically snap. Chin high, they jerk a thumb over their shoulder. _I refuse. Not until you listen to me._

You do growl, this time. It tears from your throat as you go for them again, but they’re expecting you now; they dodge barely enough to avoid you, your momentum making you stumble, and you curse. You jerk back, and- nothing happens. You don’t understand. You were wide open, they could have tripped you or hit you or any number of things and gained the upper hand easily, but all they do is watch you carefully, waiting, ready to dodge again. You don’t understand. Why are they doing this?

“What do you _want?_ ” The frustration in your voice bubbles over into a whine, burning you up from the inside. You probably look like an idiot, don’t you? You feel like one. All this way only to be stopped by a fucking child.

_I want,_ they start, and then you’ve lost them again. You watch their signs, largely uncomprehending; you can’t even guess what most of these mean. They pause after a few seconds. Maybe they realize you can’t understand, because after a moment of biting their lip (which is bleeding, you notice. Did you do that?) they start signing again, a little slower, with signs you _can_ recognize.

_I want you to come home with me._

“Why do you care?” Your voice does you the service of not breaking as you gesture to the field around you, the scowl on your face falling flat. The forest pulls at you, almost, an itching under your skin. You ignore it. “You came all this way just to find me, and I’ve just--” You stop short, every single reason you’ve given them to give up or fight back refusing to leave your tongue. “ _Why._ I don’t understand.”

_Because they care._ They wave a hand to the city behind you. You don’t have to ask who they’re talking about. _They want you back. Isn’t that enough?_

You don’t say anything. They watch you, steadily, and a million retorts sit waiting on your tongue; insults, protests, begging, pleading, so many words you wouldn’t even know how to start giving a voice to- not that you’d allow yourself to say them anyway. Your contempt and your hatred and something you’re starting to realize might even be envy sit hollow in your chest, weighing you down. You don’t say anything.

_I have something for you,_ they say, finally. 

“I don’t want it,” you snap, and they pause, hand halfway to their pocket. They raise an eyebrow. Your cheeks burn. “...Fine,” you mutter, “whatever. I bet it’s stupid anyway.”

They smile. It snags your attention, even though it’s so small as to be nearly nonexistent, but then you see what’s dangling from their grip and everything else leaves your mind entirely.

Your hand goes to your neck on reflex, and for the first time in hours, the empty space at your throat feels like a gaping wound.

///

As someone who’s never had much to begin with, you’ve never felt to be a very materialistic person. When all you had were the clothes on your back, that was enough. When all you had was the knife you borrowed, snuck into the sleeves of a sweater that was too big for you anyway, that was enough. When your jacket was added to the small pile of Things Chara Had, that was enough, too. What’s the use of having too many things when you could so easily lose them? When they could be so easily taken away? At least the objects in your possession were _yours._ Nobody elses. Not ever.

You never asked for much. You never asked for anything. The Dreemurrs offered you things you’d only ever dreamed about coming into possession of; toys, furniture, shoes... A year ago, you would have been drooling at the thought of an entire room of your own, neat gadgets you could play with whenever you wanted. A _bed._ An entire bed, just for you. Imagine that! In the end you’d denied everything the small monster family hadn’t insisted upon.

You hated having things.

Frisk drops the locket into your cupped hands, and you’re reminded of the several hours you’d spent hiding under the sink after Asriel had given it to you as the same feeling bites at your fingers once again. 

You want to ask them how they came to have it. Did Asriel give it to them? Did they take it from him? Or were they the first one to find it, on the dresser next to your bed where you’d placed it before you left? You lick your lips, and instead ask, “How did you know?”

They furrow their eyebrows at you, the expression enough of a question in itself.

“The forest, and the- the mountain,” you elaborate, stumbling over your words now that the adrenaline coursing through your veins has no outlet, leaving you feeling shaky, too light. “How did you know I was coming here?”

Their expression doesn’t clear, but it changes; they purse their (still bleeding) lips and once again go for their pocket. They pull out a phone. Perhaps a little too complicated to explain to you through sign right now, then.

You fidget with the chain of the necklace while they tap away on the keys. The silver of it gleams as it catches the light, finery that holds almost too much contrast against the imperfections in your skin; the grooves in your fingertips catch over the letters engraved on one side of the metal heart. _Best Friends Forever._ A little piece of you you’ve been trying so desperately to pretend wasn’t missing slots back into place, and as it does you feel the fight leave you entirely. Maybe it’s a bad thing, that this little piece of jewelry has the power to subdue you (calm you) so easily. Mostly it just feels right.

They drop their phone into your hand once they’re finished. There’s a key on its keychain, as well as a tiny flower pendant, and you ignore them fidgeting with the sleeves of their sweater in your peripheral as you read.

_I heard the legends abt mt ebott before. When no one could find u anywere else I thought maybe u would b here so I came as fast as I could. I’m glad I wasn’t too late._ And then, at the very end, as if tacked on as an afterthought, _I was going to the mountain when I first came here too._

You glance up at them. They meet your gaze, to their credit. You sigh, heavily, dropping the phone back into their waiting hand. “You’re making it increasingly more difficult to hate you, you know.”

_Sorry._ They shrug, the movement entirely unapologetic. You huff.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind, you don’t make it very hard at all.”

_Sorry?_ they say again, eyebrows drawn in confusion. You roll your eyes and turn around.

“Whatever. Not my problem.”

Grass crunches underfoot as they run to catch up to you, and your shoulders tense. Even trying not to look, you can’t help but catch a glimpse of them hastily typing something on their phone before they practically shove it in your face. You almost knock it out of their hands and refuse to read it out of spite, but your eyes go over the words there without asking.

_When you asked what I wanted, I didn’t tell u everything_

You squint at them, suspicious now. “Then what?”

When they smile this time, “small” is the last word you’d use to describe it. Medium, maybe, or medium-large. When they sign, you understand each word. 

_I want to be your friend._

For a few seconds, all you can do is stare at them. Part of you thinks it has to be a joke. The rest of you knows better. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to that.”

_That’s OK,_ they say, shrugging again, and then, _hold on._

“Holding,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. They press a button on their phone.

A familiar jingle rings out through the air.

Oh. Oh no.

“you guys done?”

Sans steps out from behind a small house, looking for all the world like he’d just woken up from a nap. You know better than _that_ , too. Heat rises to your face. Frisk looks entirely unsurprised, and suspicion once again snakes up your gut, coiling into an embarrassment that makes your stomach turn.

“How long have you--”

“the whole time,” he says, winking. “used a shortcut to get here. how else d’you think frisk managed to catch up with ya in time?”

“I hate you,” you tell him, resigned. Resigned to what, one might ask? Yes.

(You still take the shortcut. There’s no way you’re walking all the way back.)

Sans doesn’t have to stop you when you’re back in front of the castle. While Frisk runs ahead, your feet are rooted to the ground you stepped out on. You can’t go in there. You wasted their time. You wasted their energy. They’re going to be angry.

“hey,” he says, drawing you a little out of the circle of regret swirling in your thoughts. You don’t look at him, though. You don’t think he was expecting you to. “i don’t know why you did what you did, or, uh, if you even had a reason at all. but you scared a lot of people disappearing like that, chara. we were all really worried about you.” He stops. You glance over to find him looking at you already. “long story short...i’m glad you’re okay, kiddo. and i’d bet my funny bone they are, too.”

You take a breath. A second. After a moment of deliberation, you place the necklace back around your neck, the only other armor you’ll ever need. And then you step inside.

///

You’ve never been one to hide from things that scare you.

...Well. Most of the time.

After Toriel and Asgore finished talking to you, both of their eyes red, both of them looking far too tired, you escaped to your room. You didn’t tell them why you left, or what you were planning on doing. You’re pretty sure they knew. 

“ _I would not give you up for anything_ ,” Toriel had said, voice low.

“ _We all love you very much, Chara,_ ” Asgore agreed. “ _That will never change._ ”

That hurt more than their anger ever could.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask the molding under your bed.

There’s silence for a few moments, and then shuffling on the other side of the room. “I was,” Asriel admits, “a little.” He falls silent. You don’t do anything to change that. Then, “Once, when I was upset, Mom told me that anger is a secondary reaction. And usually when you’re mad it’s because you feel, um. Something else first.” He pauses again, and you can picture the exact way he fiddles with his fingers. “I was scared? I didn’t know where you went, or why you were gone or- or anything! I thought maybe you- were you mad at _me_?”

His voice is thick with frustration and mounting tears, and you clutch your sweater where the locket lays underneath. “No. I promise. I--” You bite your lip. If only you just had the right _words_. “I thought...everyone would be better off. If I disappeared.”

More silence. More quiet. When will you learn how to keep your mouth shut? His voice is quiet when he speaks again, and you press your locket against your chest, feeling the cool metal against your skin. “How long have you been thinking that?”

_Forever_ , you want to say, but you can’t, so you won’t. Instead, you tell him, “Since Frisk came.”

The shuffling resumes, growing closer, and when he speaks again, it’s from just beside the bed. “Can I join you?”

You swallow. Voice hoarse, you whisper, “Whatever.” He doesn’t move for a second, and neither do you, suddenly terrified.

He crawls under the bed. You know he does because most of your light disappears as he blocks the entrance with his body; turning to face him, you realize the bed is too small to fit both of you underneath it entirely, and he can only really get half of his body inside. And suddenly you can breathe again.

“I was really lonely before you came here, you know,” he says. You do know. You don’t interrupt him. “It’s not that I was bad at making friends. It’s just, I was always afraid that people would only like me because I was a prince, or because of my parents. Not because of _me_. But... You don’t have that problem. Like. At all.” The faux-grim expression on his face softens as he places his hand between you, palm up. The invitation is clear. “You’re my best friend, Chara. How could I ever be better off without you?”

You want to protest. You want to tell him he’s lying. You want to punch him, push him out, take back the last thirty seconds and never let the words leave your mouth. You want the stinging at your eyes and the heat in your face to disappear. You want...

Hiding your face in a shoulder you can’t stop from shaking, you take his hand and hold onto it as tightly as you’ll allow yourself. The paw pads on his palm dig a little into your skin; like sandpaper that’d taken an anger management class. It’s familiar. Almost too much. You’d never ask for anything else.

You think you might have over-reacted. You think, when you can stand to look another human in the eye without wanting to tear out their insides, you might have to apologize to Frisk for punching them in the face. You think you have a lot of apologizing to do, to a lot of different people.

But for now, you’ll take this. This little moment of- not peace, maybe, but something like it, something that fills your chest with warmth even as you leak gross fluids all over your jacket. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Asriel’s hand squeezes back just as tight.


End file.
